Personal Trainer

by Paulus the Woodgnome

Authorís note: The sheerest fantasy, alas, from one who has "going
to the gym" somewhat below "have your toenails pulled out one by one"
on the to-do list . . . but if there are any hunky Aussie personal
trainers out there who'd like to change my mind, do feel free to get in touch !

I suppose I should have guessed, knowing Daniel, what would happen. I mean
really, I walked into the whole thing, eyes shut, when all the clues were there
in front of me. Call me Queen Oblivious of the Oblivious People. But I'm getting
ahead of myself (Shane says that's one of my problems he's determined to correct.
Oh bliss !)

It all began about a week before my birthday. Daniel had invited me to lunch
in the latest and swankiest venue in town, so I'd dressed up a bit, all in black
with a silk mandarin-collared jacket I bought in Hong Kong, and shades of course,
doing the 'I am an artist' bit. The trouble was - well, I'd put on a bit of
weight since I bought that jacket. It was decidedly tight around the midriff.

Don't get me wrong: no-one from the 'Bulk' club is going to be asking for my
phone number, but my usually svelte lines were becoming a little - comfortably
curved, let's say. Of course Daniel, the wretch, looked like several million
dollars when I got to the restaurant - appropriately enough given the current
state of his reserves (at least according to the Sunday Times, but then who
believes what they read in one of Rupert Murdoch's rags ?).

So I got the hug and the big smoochy kiss in full view of everybody - the
usual production. It's all part of that fluffy-bunny image he likes to project,
to conceal the helium-cooled supercomputer he uses for a brain. Don't get me
wrong: much as I'd like to hate him (well wouldn't you: rich, good-looking
and clever ?) I succumbed to the charm just like everyone else, just
like I had done all those years ago at school.

"Kevin my sweet, how is my favourite artist ?" he asked, taking
in everything with one sweep of those big blue eyes. "You're looking
wonderfully prosperous."

I pulled a face.

"You mean fat," I said through gritted teeth.

He smiled.

"I mean prosperous," he said. "How did the exhibition go ?"

"Very well thanks to your sponsorship. And virtually everything in the show
sold. But I have been rather living on that disgusting white wine they hand out at
private views, and bags of chips at 11pm. I might just as well apply it directly
to my waist."

"Oh it's not that bad, for heavens sake," he said airily. "A
few extra pounds. You'll soon work that off at the gym or clubbing."

I shook my head. "I just can't manage a gym: I hate exercising with other
people around. And as for clubs: you heard about me and Robert ?"

He laid a cool, sympathetic hand over mine.

"I'm sorry it didn't work out," he said. "But I can't claim to be
sorry you got rid of him. In fact, I'm sorry you wouldn't let me call the police."

"He wasn't that bad," I protested half-heartedly. "He was just
so . . ."

"He was so - butch ? So - Neanderthal ?" suggested
Daniel politely.

His mouth quirked a little and I could feel my own twitch into a sour grin
despite myself. OK so I like my men masculine: is there anything wrong in that ?
But I have to admit that Robert was a bit over the top, even for me. He wasn't
just masculine, he was a brute. A cracked rib and a chipped tooth had convinced
me of that, finally. And really since then I just haven't felt much like bothering.

"There's butch and butch," I agreed. A hovering waiter (with a rather
nice bum crammed into his tight black trousers I noticed) suddenly produced wine,
which I assumed Daniel had already ordered. I took a hefty swig.

"Yes," he said, and from the gleam in his eye I knew, just knew,
that he was remembering a certain magical night in a boathouse in Oxford, when a
six-foot-four Canadian rowing blue had laid the pair of us over the upturned hull
of a boat side by side and used his belt on us before we all three descended by
stages into a giggling, and in some parts glowing, pretzel of flesh on a blanket
on the floor. I think every orifice I have was had by him at least once that
night. God, that lad had stamina - it must be the diet. But I digress.

"So there's been no-one else since ?" he asked.

I shook my head, and to my embarrassment I could feel my eyes filling. Really,
how ridiculous. I cleared my throat and changed the topic of conversation, which
Daniel seemed happy enough to go along with.

After the meal (which was actually a lot better than the menu made it sound:
"fillets of monkfish lightly gilded in the pan and anointed in a jus
perfumed with the fragrances of the East Indies" indeed) I went home in a
much better mood. He always did have the knack of making me laugh.

The following week, however, the day of my birthday, I was woken up at some
ungodly hour of the morning by the loud and aggressive ringing of the studio
doorbell. I sleep at the back of my studio space, on a mezzanine reached by an
open staircase, and the kitchen area, shower, and toilet are underneath it. The
previous night had been a heavy one because some friends had come around and
insisted on dragging me out till well past midnight to celebrate, so I wasn't
exactly functioning at my best, you understand. So by the time I'd surfaced enough
to work out what that irritating noise was, dragged on a pair of old shorts and
a T-shirt, clambered down the stair and through the studio to the front door,
this ringing had been going on for quite some time.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming," I snapped as I opened the door.
"What the hell is it, the world on fire or something ?"

The guy on the front step raised an eyebrow.

"Ah so you are in, mate," he said. "Good, I was beginning to
wonder. I'm Shane Hanrahan." The accent was strongly Australian.

I looked at him blankly.

"Your personal trainer ?" he supplied helpfully.

"But I don't have a personal trainer."

"You do now. Daniel sent me. My services fully paid for, for as long as it
takes to get you into shape. He said something about a birthday present ?"

"The rat," I said. "The rotten little bastard. Just because I
said I didn't like gyms . . ."

"Neither do I," he said. "Can I come in ?" and
without waiting for a reply he brushed past me and into the studio.

"Nice space you got here mate," he said. "Ideal for a workout."

"My studio," I said stupidly. "Er look, Shane was it ? I
really don't think this is a good idea. I'm not the exercising type. And really,
I haven't got time for all this."

He frowned. He was tanned, with short, dark blonde hair in a spiky cut, and
dark brown eyes that right now were distinctly on the flinty side. Under other
circumstances I might have thought he was rather cute although he was a bit
broader and beefier across the shoulders and arms than my ideal - too much
working out with weights, I reckoned. But I didn't get any gay vibe off him so
he was probably straight anyway.

"Look I hope this isn't all some stupid windup," he said. "I do
have other clients, you know, I don't need to waste my time here."

"That wasn't what I meant," he said angrily. "I'm not a gouger,
I've been paid. I just don't appreciate being messed about like this, and I'm
going to phone Danny-boy and tell him so." And he produced a mobile from his
pocket and punched a number into it. It must have been Daniel's direct line
because he got straight through. I admit that startled me - Daniel doesn't
exactly give that number out to all and sundry. That was what started me wondering.

"Hi, Danny, Shane here. Now look mate, what's going on with this Kevin
bloke ? He's just told me he doesn't want my help." Now I was really
amazed. I mean, no-one calls Daniel 'Danny', except his grandmother, and
me when I really really want to annoy him. Obviously Shane was not just hired
help. Maybe he was some business partner, from before Daniel settled down to
blissful happiness in his country house with Paul and their menage of Burmese cats,
Old English sheepdogs and ponies. There had been some sort of chain of health
clubs or something in the portfolio, I seemed to remember. Or maybe this guy was
some distant relative - yes, of course, that must be it. Daniel's mother had
had relatives in Australia. Or was it New Zealand ?

The mobile was proffered to me. "He wants to talk to you," said Shane curtly.

"Kevin, darling," said Daniel. "You don't like my birthday
present ?" He sounded just a bit ticked off. I could picture the
quizzical expression, with the little wrinkle that appeared between his eyebrows
when he was cross.

"Well, look Daniel, it's terribly sweet and thoughtful of you but you know
how I hate exercising. I mean, it might be all right for musclebound gym-queens
who've never had a constructive thought in their . . ."
I suddenly realised a) that Shane was listening to this and b) that it wasn't
really very polite to Daniel either, and tried to change tack in mid-conversation:
". . . well that is, you know, it's just not me."

"Well perhaps it ought to be, sweetie," said Daniel. "It would
be so good for you, it will lift you out of yourself having something physical
and mindless to do instead of brooding in that delightful but intense artistic
way you have. I really think I'm going to insist. You do remember how when
I financed your first show you promised that if ever there was anything you could
do for me I only had to say the word ? Well, I'm saying it. I want you to
put yourself in Shane's hands and do whatever he tells you."

"Blackmailer," I protested feebly.

He laughed. "I knew you'd see it my way," he said. "Honestly
darling, you'll thank me for it afterwards, I know you will. Just pass me back
to Shane, there's a love."

Wordlessly I handed the mobile back to its sulking owner. There was a long
pause, in which I could just hear the faint buzzing of Daniel's voice in
counterpoint to Shane's replies. "Mm. Ah-ha. Yeah, I see. What, anything ?
Oh, right. Yeah, I understand. Oh, no, no worries, it'll be a pleasure,
believe me. Oh, I will, you can be sure of that. Yeah, cheers, mate." He
punched the phone off with an aggressive beep and turned to me.

"Well ?" he said.

"It seems like I've got a personal trainer," I conceded, a bit
ungraciously. "How long is all this likely to take ?"

"Well, under normal circumstances, I'd say an hour a day would be ample."

"An hour ?"

"But in your case I might need something more intensive." I looked
at him in cold dislike and he smirked.

"What ? I'm not in training for the Olympics or anything, you know.
I don't need . . ."

"I'll be the judge of what you need," he interrupted. "We'll
start with some warm-up exercises."

For the next ten minutes he put me through a series of ridiculous variations
on hopping, skipping, and stretching which left me hot, breathing fast, and more
than a little irritated at the continual stream of corrections, exhortations,
and frank insults I was getting.

"No, no. Bend right over at the waist when you swing from one toe to the
other," he said as I tried yet another contortion. He came up behind me, and
pushed down gently on my shoulders.

"It hurts the back of my legs," I moaned from somewhere down at
knee height.

"It's supposed to stretch your calf muscles a bit," he said.
"Open your legs a bit more." He knelt down and gently moved my feet
apart. It did ease the strain a bit but the feel of those warm, strong hands on
my legs brought a sudden and unexpected wave of arousal. And that was a scene I
definitely didn't want into at the moment. "Oh, I've had enough of this,"
I expostulated, getting up, my face reddened.

"This ? This is just the warm-up," he laughed. "Now we
start the real exercise programme. And I didn't tell you you could get up."

"I'll do as I damn well please in my own home," I said.

"Right," he said. "That's it. I have just about had it
with your attitude."

He grabbed my arm and twisted me round, over his half lifted knee.

WHAP. His hand came down hard on my backside. WHAP. WHAP. WHAP. WHAP. WHAP.
WHAP. WHAP. WHAP. WHAP. Even through the denim shorts it stung.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing ?" I yelled.

"Danny told me I might have to get physical with you to get your
attention," he said grimly. "I can see he was right. Well, I gave you
a chance at the easy way, and you didn't take it. So from now on we do things
the hard way. Hard on your bum, that is."

"You can't . . ."

"I can, and I will. Didn't Danny tell you you were to do whatever I told
you ?"

"I . . ." I was caught. Damn the pair of them. I
couldn't afford to lose such a rich and influential patron as Daniel. "I'm
sure he didn't mean . . ."

"Oh yes he did. He suggested it. 'If he doesn't come around, spank
him until he's more co-operative' he said. And believe me, I intend to. Get up
and drop those shorts."

"But I haven't got anything on underneath," I protested.

"Too bad for you," he returned. "You would have been getting it
bare-bum anyway sooner or later - this just makes it sooner."

"Then it's way past time your backside got a good hiding, isn't it, judging
by your snotty attitude ? Now get 'em down, because if I have to take them
down for you, and believe me I will, you'll regret it, I promise you."

I stared at him for a moment, and he stared back, uncompromising. A tremor of
something unidentifiable - anger, fear, excitement ? - ran through
me. After a moment I dropped my gaze, and then, slowly and reluctantly, my shorts,
which slid down around my ankles, revealing all. I've stripped off in front of
plenty of guys before but this wasn't sexy, it was humiliating. I could
feel my face getting red.

"Yes, I think we can work on that," said Shane cheerfully, after
spinning me around and surveying my bum with a professional eye. I blushed even
darker with a mixture of shame and fury.

"I'll do the exercises," I mumbled, hanging my head.

"Sorry mate, I didn't catch that ?"

"I'll do the exercises," I said more loudly.

"Too right you will. But that isn't going to get you out of a spanking
you thoroughly deserve." He looked around the studio for a moment and spotted
the chair by the fireplace. Grabbing me by the arm he led me over there and
settled himself comfortably into it. Then he patted his thighs. A tiny part of
me couldn't help noticing how muscular they were.

"Over you go," he said.

"I . . ."

I paused, and couldn't think of anything to say. He waited, eyebrows raised
in a sort of patient questioning. Well, not that patient, actually. I had
the distinct impression that every second of delay was counting against me.

I mean, what could I do ?

"This is ridiculous," I said weakly as I laid myself awkwardly across
his lap.

A warm strong hand ran over my backside. It wasn't an erotic gesture, like a
lover's caress, more like a farmer assessing livestock. Nonetheless, I felt a
faint tremor of excitement inside me. I was just so damned helpless !

SMACK ! Ooh that stung !

"Did you say something ?" he asked politely in response to my
muffled exclamation. I shook my head. I'd be damned if I'd give him the
satisfaction, the sadistic bastard.

"Good." SMACK. The other cheek this time. He had plenty of muscle
in his arms, that was for sure. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. He was taking his
time between each whack, letting it sink in a bit. My bum was starting to feel
hot as the weight and sting of each blow kind of spread into a general glow. And
still his hand came down, like a metronome - SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK,
taking his time, spreading it around, the sides, the top, the lower part where it
joins the thighs - my whole bum getting a good old-fashioned hiding. It wasn't
like a few sexy smacks as foreplay, this was punishment, and it bloody well hurt,
I can tell you. I know there are people who think that spanking is kiddies stuff,
but believe me a guy with forearms and hands as big and well-muscled as Shane's
can inflict some serious bum-warming without ever picking up an instrument.

I was gritting my teeth, determined that I wasn't going to yell, but when he
started to pick up the pace I couldn't help a sharp intake of breath. Immediately
he started to spank me hard and fast on the same spot - WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK
WHACK WHACK WHACK ! and I sort of had to make a slight groan, more of a whine
actually, and try to shift about a bit on his lap to move the target out of the
line of fire. He knew he had me then, of course. I got some more of the same -
quite a lot more of the same - until I heard a voice saying: "please, oh
please, stop," and realised it was mine. At some point my hands flew back to
try to protect my seared flesh but he just grabbed them, encircling both my wrists
with his left hand and pinned them painfully back. I was kicking and bucking on
his lap, but he had me well supported above the ground and I couldn't get the
purchase needed to leap off his lap. I couldn't bear it, couldn't bear the
stinging fire that his big hands were inflicting on me, but I had no choice; and
I yelled and babbled a mixture of threats and swearwords and craven promises to
do anything he wanted, but none of it had any effect at all. He carried on
spanking me until he decided I'd had enough and then he just stopped and
let me go.

I struggled to my feet and hobbled to the corner of the studio. I had a
large-ish piece there, a draft version from my lights and mirrors phase - you
might have seen the finished version, "Fire Symmetries" ? Anyway,
this thing has three full-length strips of mirror built into it, angled, so I got
a three-d view of what he'd done to me. I just stood there, mouth open in horror,
looking at my swollen dark red cheeks, mottled with little purple bruises where
the blood vessels had broken, and here and there, quite distinct, the outlines of
his fingers branded onto my bum. Not a white piece of flesh left in sight between
my waist and my thighs.

Mind you my face wasn't a much prettier sight, also red, and tear-stained and
with a trail of snot from the left nostril into the bargain. I hastily wiped my
tears and my nose, and tried to recover a shred of dignity. I couldn't bear to
look at Shane.

"Come here," he said quietly.

I obeyed, instantly. Well, I wasn't going to argue after that, was I ?
Oh God but my bum was sore: I was dying to get a pack of frozen peas or something
out of the freezer and hold it against my burning flesh to cool it off.

"Now, let's start again, shall we ?" he said. "I'm here
to help you get yourself back into trim. You want to lose that spare tyre, don't
you ?"

I looked up, outraged. Spare tyre ? Spare tyre !? Instinctively I
opened my mouth for a smart remark, and then my bum twinged and I thought twice.

"Y-yes," I managed. "Please," I added, just to be on the
safe side.

"See, it's not so hard to be polite, is it ?" he asked, all
sweetness and light. "When you're sufficiently motivated." I
said nothing as he went on: "Same with the exercising: motivation is the key.
That's what I'm here to supply, motivation and guidance."

I bit my tongue, and hoped that my lowered head concealed my rising fury. Of
all the smug, infuriating . . .

"Now under the circumstances, I'm going to let you off the sit-ups
today," he said, "but you need some aerobic exercise to burn off the
calories and some targetted work on your abs to tighten the muscles there, as
well as a general exercise routine. So this is what we're going to be doing each
morning . . ."

He proceeded to run through an endless list of tortures that Torquemada would
have been proud of - come to think of it, the bastard probably was
Torquemada, reincarnated. Or maybe Genghiz Khan. I had a sudden vision of Shane
in a fur hat with a spike on the top and couldn't stifle a giggle. And another.

"What's so funny ?" he demanded in a flat tone. I could see he
was getting annoyed, but I just couldn't help myself. You know how it is when
you just have to laugh even though you mustn't ? I was completely helpless
with laughter, and every time I tried to suppress it I just exploded all the more
in fits of giggles. Nervous reaction of course, I've always been like that, ever
since I was a kid. But Shane wasn't to know that and I could see his face getting
redder and his scowl getting blacker. And he drew back his hand, and for a second
I had a paralysing flashback to Robert, and I knew, just knew, that he was
going to punch me.

OK, I'm a coward, I admit it. But when you've been through an abusive
relationship it leaves scars. Sometimes you don't always realise that you still
have them, until something like that happens. I couldn't help myself, I cringed
away, putting up my hands to protect my face.

The effect on Shane was extraordinary. You'd have thought it was him that had
been hit. His face went white under the tan and he looked sick, physically sick.

I stared in amazement.

"Christ," he said disgustedly. "You didn't think I was going
to hit you, did you ?"

I twisted my head to look down at my bruised backside, and then back at him.
I never said a word, but he blushed.

"Yeah, but that's different. I'll spank you if I think you need it - and
you did, believe me. But I've never had anyone look at me like that - and I
don't want anyone to look at me like that again. Not with terror in their eyes."

"I - I'm sorry," I said at last. "It brought back bad memories."

"You used to get beaten up ?"

"I - things - my former partner used to - and my dad, when I was
little, sometimes. Mostly he hit my mum, but if we got in the way . . .
And with Robert it was just the same in the end, the not knowing, the wondering what
would set him off, walking around on eggshells. And I just couldn't - it
was - it was . . ." and about that point I ran out of words,
and somehow I was in his arms, with my head on his shoulder, crying my eyes out.
And one of those big, strong hands was stroking my hair while the other patted my
shoulders and he made soothing noises like you do to a small child:

"Shsh, shsh, it's all right, it's all right Kevin mate, no worries now."

"Oh God," I said finally, "whad bust you dhink ob be ?"
Well, all that crying had kind of stuffed me up. I made an effort to stand up
and he let go of me, almost with reluctance.

"I'b a derrible wimp, aren'd I ?"

"You don't have to be macho to be strong," he said simply. "And you
got rid of this - Robert, was it ? - in the end, so there must be some
strength in there." I smiled weakly, but I was terribly embarrassed. I mean
the guy was the next thing to a total stranger, and we seemed to have gone through
a whole opera's worth of emotions.

I think he must have been embarrassed too - for God's sake the guy was probably
straight, and here he was with some weepy queen breaking down in his arms. Anyway,
in the old tabloid journalist's parlance he made his excuses and left.

I went and washed my face, and went and sat down. And got up again, smartish.
With all the excitement I'd almost forgotten that I'd had a really thorough
spanking. I went and got that pack of frozen peas, and sat down, very cautiously
this time, cursing Shane Hanrahan and all his works under my breath. The utter
officious managing bastard. How dare he ? I hated him, really hated him. So
why was it, despite the fact that the memory of those hands on my bum was still
vivid in my memory (and vividly marked on my arse, too), that it was the same
hands stroking my hair that I kept recalling ?

I sighed. I didn't expect I'd see him again. It must all have been really
embarrassing for him, although I supposed that eventually it would become a funny
anecdote to tell people at dinner parties, or mates down the pub, or whatever.

But the next day (after sleeping on my stomach, I might add) I got up early
just in case. Eight o'clock came and went, so that was it. No show.

"Just as well," I said to myself aloud (Oh God, now I was talking
to myself. I'd have to get a cat or something). "I couldn't be doing with
him at all."

"Would you like a cup of coffee ?" I asked. Jesus, why was I
gushing like a schoolgirl on a first date ? I didn't like the guy.
In fact, I reminded myself sternly, you absolutely detest him.

"Er, er no, thank you. Shouldn't really take on a fluid load just before
working out. Either of us," he added firmly, taking my mug off me and
putting it down on the breakfast bar. "I'll have to speak to you about your
diet later, but let's get into the warm-up exercises first."

"OK," I said, looking back a bit reluctantly at that mug of freshly
brewed Sumatran Blue Lingtong. And we started. It wasn't as bad as yesterday -
well, let's face it, what could have been ? - but it wasn't exactly joy
unbounded, either. And Shane was - well, a bit odd, very brusque and businesslike.
After a few minutes the penny dropped that he didn't want to give up this job,
probably owed Daniel a favour, but at the same time was uncomfortable being around
a gay man. So he was trying his best to keep it cool and professional, although
I did notice a twisted little half-smile when he made me sit down on the hard
wooden floor to do sit-ups, and I couldn't keep from wincing. I still had a crop
of little blue bruises and finger outlines right across my backside - I knew,
because I'd checked that morning when I got out of the shower.

By the time we finished and did a warm-down set I was red-faced and sweating
but I did feel a certain glow, part physical, partly psychological at achieving
more than I would have dreamed I could. He handed me a diet sheet and told me to
look through it, and then he was off, before I could even ask him if he wanted
that coffee now. I felt a bit put out about that, actually.

The next two days were exactly the same, and by the end of the week I was
getting more than a little pissed off by it. Thursday night I put his ridiculous
diet sheet in the bin and went out for a curry with an old friend. No, an old
female friend, as it happens, not that it's any of your business, and we
spent the night agreeing how ghastly men were, if only some of them weren't so
cute as well.

So I wasn't at my best on Friday morning when he arrived, and I was bit cool
with him, to be honest, which I think rather took him aback because I'd been nice
as pie during the week, just in case. Of course after last night's heavy meal I
made really heavy weather of the exercises too, even the easy ones I'd been
sailing though earlier on in the week.

"What is the matter with you this morning ?" he snapped at last.
"You know you can do better than that. Come on, another five."

"I can't," I groaned. "It's all the chicken makanwalla
and rogan josh I had last night."

"That's really fatty food," he complained. "You should be
following that diet sheet I gave you - plenty of raw fruit and vegetables,
protein in moderation, not a lot of fat."

"Oh give me a break," I exploded. He pursed his lips.

"Weighing scales," he said. This was part of the routine: regular
weight monitoring. Of course, after last night's little escapade I was a couple
of pounds heavier.

"That is not on," he said. "I see that I'll have to supply a
little motivation in that area too."

"Oh, now wait," I said, backing away. If he thought I was going to
lie there and take another spanking from him, the big homophobic lunk, he had
another think coming. At least provided I could get to the bathroom and lock the
door before he . . .

"Ouch, that hurts," I complained as he lunged and grabbed my wrists.
"Get off me !"

"It won't be your wrists that hurt in a minute," he promised grimly.

"No ! Oww ! Let me go !" But despite my struggles he
knelt down, pulling me across his thighs and locking me into position. I might
just as well have co-operated for all the good it did me - his arms were like
steel hawsers. I had no strength to resist him. I felt his hand in the back of
my shorts.

"No. Please." The last word came out more plaintively than I'd
intended. He sniffed, and my shorts came down to mid thigh, baring my still
slightly bruised bum for his eyes.

"Now, you're going to co-operate about the diet from now on, aren't
you ?" he said.

"Yes, yes, of course I am," I agreed. I would have agreed to
anything at that moment.

"Good. And just to make sure you remember . . ."

WHACK ! Owoo, that hurt. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. He settled
into a rhythm, his palm striking full force against my unprotected cheeks. By
the time he had finished my backside was extremely hot and sore, but somehow I
had the distinct impression that his heart wasn't in it: it certainly wasn't
anything like as bad as the first time.

He let me go, and I hastily pulled up my shorts.

"You get off on this," I said crossly.

"I'm just doing my job," he replied, equally crossly. "If you
would put a bit of effort into it, I wouldn't have to."

"Ooh, get her. You sound like my mother, darling."

"And don't do that !"

"What ?" I enquired, all wide-eyed innocence.

"You know - flounce like that."

Well, I tell you, I roared with laughter. I mean, flounce, indeed. Who the
hell says flounce ? But of course I should have figured that camping it up
would get on his nerves. So naturally, I did it all the more. Not only did I
flounce, I minced, sashayed, wiggled, giggled, and generally was positively
girlish. Because if he didn't like poofs I was determined to remind him that I
most certainly was one, and tough on him. And he got shorter and shorter with me
for the rest of the session, but of course, I was very careful to put every bit
of effort I could into actually doing the exercises, and so what could he do ?
Nothing, except simmer quietly.

Then I made my fatal slip. I just got a wee bit carried away with giving him
a hard time, and well, yes, I suppose I did get a bit lippy. "Boneheaded
breeders" might just have been a phrase too far.

I found myself on the floor, pinned down in a wrestling hold.

"You have to push it, don't you ?" he roared, his face inches
from mine. "You just have to push at the envelope. No wonder people want to
beat you up - it's not them, it's because you're impossible !"

I opened my mouth to say that that was a bit of a low blow and he silenced me,
quickly and effectively, by fastening his mouth over mine and giving me a kiss
that damned near sucked my tonsils out.

When I recovered from my stunned surprise, I found myself responding with an
enthusiasm that surprised me. My goodness, that kiss nearly killed me with oxygen
starvation, and the way his lips and tongue worked over mine I thought he was
going to chew half my face off. My hands worked their way down his back to slip
into his shorts and discover cheeks as hard and firm as wood. Meanwhile my own
shorts were coming down for the second time that day, those big spade-shaped hands
caressing and squeezing the arse they had so recently been setting ablaze, waking
a new and welcome heat.

With frenzied haste we tore our remaining clothes off and began a frantic
exploration of one another's naked bodies with hands, lips, and tongues. He was
beautifully defined, his body bronzed and covered in wiry golden hair, his prick
not as long as some I've had but thick and rock hard, jumping with the rapid
beating of his heart and already drooling a thin stream of clear pre-come. I knew
I wanted him in me, buried in the heart of me.

I whispered in his ear, my urgency answering his, and he lifted me bodily and
carried me up the stairs to the sleeping platform, my legs wrapped around his
waist, the tip of his prick nuzzling against me as we moved, my own rampant
erection pressed tight against his hot body. We fell onto the bed and I fumbled
for the condoms and lube, hastily unrolled a rubber over his stiff member then
passed him the lubricant and rolled onto my stomach. His finger probed at my anus
and I arched in helpless pleasure as it slid in, feeling the cool slickness of
the lube. A second finger probed me deliciously, before they both withdrew. I
made a faint sound of disappointment.

"Patience," he whispered. Hurriedly he slathered more lube onto his
swollen dick. Then I felt it: the tip of his manhood resting against my arsehole.
I almost came on the spot with excitement. In contrast to our earlier, almost
convulsive moves, now he was slow and patient, entering me gently, giving my arse
time to adjust to his thickness. I could feel the sphincter stretching to
accomodate him. He thrust a little more, a moment of pain and then a pause, and
then finally slid all the way in. I felt as I always feel with a man's cock right
inside me: warm and fulfilled.

He kissed me again, kissed the back of my neck, my ears and my throat, and I
purred with pleasure. Then he withdrew about half his length and began thrusting,
and I began trying to match my movements to his, lifting my arse as he thrust so
that the massive cock head ground deep into me, his weight and strength pushing
me back down into the bed each time, grinding my own cock against the bedclothes.
I was ready to come . . . I was coming. I could feel my muscles
convulsing in waves around the meat sheathed deep inside me, felt him gasp and
shudder as my reaction pushed him past the point of no return and he exploded in
his own convulsive orgasm, his hands tightening on my upper arms with a strength
that would leave bruises the next day. I didn't care, I was in ecstasy. I like
sex, I like getting fucked, but it's never been this good. Not the first time.

Our breathing gradually slowed as we laid there, still locked together.
Finally he withdrew his softening but still respectably sized cock from me and
removed the condom carefully. Then he pulled away with a groan, and sat on the
edge of the bed and buried his head in his hands in an attitude of utter despair.

"W-what's the matter ?" I asked, brought back down to earth
with a bump. Oh God, don't tell me that he's a closet case who'll blame me for
seducing him. Or already has a jealous boyfriend.

"I'm really sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry."

"Why ? I mean I wanted it, that must have been obvious. And so did you."

"I've been wanting it since the first day !" he burst out.
"You're impossible, but I've never met anyone like you. I fancied you like
crazy, that's why I had to try so hard not to show it. It was sheer hell trying to
be 'hands off' when I was torn between spanking you silly and fucking you silly."

"Now you've done both," I pointed out with a grin. "So what's
the problem ?"

"I. don't. screw. my. clients." he ground out. I could hear the full
stop after each word.

I shook my head, laughing.

"My dear boy," I said. "I have the solution to your problem."

"What ?"

"Resign the job."

He looked shocked for a moment, then hung his head.

"Yeah, I suppose I don't blame you," he said. "I'll get my
things on the way out. Don't worry, I'll let Danny know it was my fault it didn't
work out, maybe he'll be able to get you someone else."

"Well, like you said, you can't screw your clients," I said sternly.

He nodded sadly.

"But you could train your boyfriend," I added.

"What ?"

"Come on, we're great together. I want you. Let's try it, because I don't
know about you but I think I want you to be part of my life."

A stupid grin began to spread across his face.

"You mean . . ."

"What did you think I meant ?" I said.

"You little beaut !" he cried, and then we were in each others'
arms again. I was sore, flushed, sweaty, and higher than a kite, without chemical
assistance. I was happy, I realised. I couldn't remember the last time I felt so
happy.

"You realise that if I am going to keep on training you you have to take
it seriously, boyfriend or no boyfriend ?" he murmured, as we came up
for air.

"I'll be good," I said.

"Now that's stretching belief," he laughed.

"OK, then I give you full permission to spank me as often and as hard as
necessary when I'm not good."

"You realise what you're saying ? I'll hold you to it," he warned.

And he has, too. Beware of promises made in the first flush of love, they can come
back to haunt you, and my bottom has the marks to prove it. But I've learned -
not to exactly enjoy the spankings themselves, because they damned well hurt,
especially when he takes a fancy to introduce me to the paddle, or to demonstrate
that there are other uses for a belt than holding up your trousers - but to
relish his strength, his dominance, his refusal to accept anything less than the
best from me.

I also have a 32 inch waist again, and I wouldn't change the big lunk for
anything, not even to take that ridiculously smug expression off Daniel's face
every time we meet and he congratulates himself on how successful his matchmaking
was. In fact we're off down to Daniel's for the weekend, and unless I get a move
on, I think it's going to be an uncomfortable ride down there for me.

Oh Shane, there you are. I'm just coming, honestly, as soon as I finish
this . . . No, really, there's no need for . . . OW !